


caricature of intimacy

by losthaven



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, Psychological Horror, if that LOL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthaven/pseuds/losthaven
Summary: The mirror shows the truth: he’s still the boy with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, but there’s a...sadness, or emptiness, or loneliness that he can’t ever be rid of. His hair is wet and flat and sticks to his skin in a poor attempt to hide the obvious once more, and it takes a surprising amount of strength to pull himself out of his own gaze. There were other tasks at hand, more important than another reassessment of his mind and body.Goro Akechi tries again. Very light P5R spoilers.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	caricature of intimacy

**Author's Note:**

> lightly inspired by episode 170 of the magnus archives so if you're part of the 1% crossover of interests and haven't caught up yet maybe Don't read this even though it ends far happier than this fic LOL i wish i weren't this way

Something is off. 

It’s his hair, probably—Akira had convinced him to be a little more daring with his at home haircuts and now it feels like there’s more eyes on him than ever as he makes his way through the station. Years had long past since the height of Shido’s crimes, and Goro’s part amongst them hadn’t gone completely unnoticed, but there would always be the people who wanted more justice than what the courts were willing to give. For a long time he’d just used his hair as a different type of a mask—keeping his face obscured as best he could while maneuvering through a life he’d never expected to really live—but the shorter length left him more exposed, even if was a more common style. His face had been attached to a household name for several reasons and he could not erase that. He could, however, control the features that defined the person he was now.

Hair dye at first, and then disposable contacts. T-shirts and jeans and sneakers and all the styles of dress he’d been loathe to wear before. Layers upon layers of makeup meant for people on a stage, all gone to naught when he’d crossed paths with Akira again. It wasn’t a radical moment of recognition and reconciliation, nor did it spark some sort of grand moral rebirth. But Goro allowed himself to slip and they’d gone from there, resuming their relationship and building upward. Now there was trust. Now there was—

Still, he thinks while finding a handrail, it’ll take awhile to get used to it. Even looking at his reflection in the glass he feels a bit like a stranger in someone else’s body. He’s never necessarily _liked_ looking at his own face, and he hasn’t for a long while, but it’d be nice to have an association with it that wasn’t simply just the knowledge it was the face of Goro Akechi, Second Advent of the Detective Prince. Goro Akechi, Manipulative Son of Masayoshi Shido. Goro Akechi, Naive Pawn in Prince’s Clothing. Goro Akechi, Scum of the Earth. Goro Akechi, Puppet on a String. 

It’s quiet on the train, and even quieter on the walk towards his complex. Maybe it’s just because his head is swirling with his own thoughts, but all of the familiar sources of his headaches have seemingly taken the hint after months of both verbal and filed complaints, and it’s a small victory if nothing else. The apartment is also empty, but that’s not as much a surprise as it is a reflection of how early he’d managed to make it back for once. Akira would come back to two surprises, then: a home-cooked meal and a partner to share it with. That is, if Goro didn’t give up halfway in. He was never too proud to call for takeout in place of something that could potentially harm them both. 

Still, something makes him want to try a different approach, for once. He’d spent a few years less than he’d wanted watching his mother in front of the stove, jazz music playing from a stereo they’d found on the side of the road. Sometimes she’d glide away, pull him from the shoddy table he attempted to do homework at and held him close while they swayed to the rhythm, humming every line like she’d wrote it herself. It was one of the few times he ever really saw her at peace, and he’d held onto the imagery better than he had her recipes. Goro spends a bit of time scrolling through blogs and renowned websites before he finds something along his skill level and sets to work, letting a Lyn playlist flow over the speakers. 

He sort of loses himself in the motions, body moving on its own accord to the point that he almost misses his phone ringing. His eyes glance at the time first, finding a small bit of relief as he reads 7:15. “Too urgent for a text, then?”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.” Akira yawns. His internship hours had been dragging as of late, but as far as Goro knew it wasn’t unmanageable. “How much longer?”

“I should be asking you that. A man can only wait so long, you know.” He cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stirs, “The same can be said for food as well.”

There’s a snort before Akira says, “Should I be preparing for the worst, then?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I look forward to our mutual intestinal destruction.” Akira hums, smile apparent in his voice. “You’ll do fine. Just...maybe wait a _little_ bit longer? Even the best chefs have at least one person behind them.”

Goro rolls his eyes, “We’ll see. You know my preferences, after all.”

It shouldn’t feel as personal as it does because he should be used to the gentle nudges and reminders that he has no one else to impress, that failure is okay, that he doesn’t have to be alone anymore. Goro _knows_ all of those things fairly well by now because he’s the one who had to live through the embarrassment of his failed plan and all of its side effects—and he’d done it alone. Hell, most of his life he’d been alone, and up until fairly recently he’d assumed he’d finally die the same way. He did everything he could to live in a way where he did not require another person’s guidance or forced hand, and for the most part Akira seemed to respect that boundary. Maybe Goro was still hypersensitive after the months of playing into not only Shido’s, but Maruki’s game as well. Or…no. Something was still off. 

At some point the dish goes into the oven and he takes the time to briefly shower and change into something more comfortable. After tugging on a sweatshirt reading the name of his partner’s university, he goes to pull his hair back only to come up short again. The mirror shows the truth: he’s still the boy with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, but there’s a...sadness, or emptiness, or loneliness that he can’t ever be rid of. His hair is wet and flat and sticks to his skin in a poor attempt to hide the obvious once more, and it takes a surprising amount of strength to pull himself out of his own gaze. There were other tasks at hand, more important than another reassessment of his mind and body. 

Like tidying the living room, something he hasn’t spared time for in ages. There’s files scattered all over the coffee table from before he’d taken his freelance work digital, labeled with names of people he’d nearly forgotten. He sorts them and stacks them and tucks them into his bag, to be filed at his office another time. He carries all the half-empty mugs back to the sink, glancing at the timer before he sets into washing and drying. Most of them are brandish with some stupid joke or are decorated with a cat’s features, even though he distantly remembers a spoken rule about matching sets and nothing outlandish. They put a small smile on his face regardless, though. 

He has to break out the vacuum to rid the cushions of its cat hair, despite not having had a cat in years. Goro knows he’s had to have cleaned since then—maybe a stray had gotten in, he reasons—but it’s pretty resilient to his cleaning now, so he wouldn’t be surprised if it were old. Maybe he should invest in something nicer, once his next payment came in. The sofa wasn’t particularly comfortable unless you sat on it in a very particular way, which was more than a sign to let it go. He’s not really sure why he kept it so long to begin with, maybe a long lost sentimental value. His eyes catch on to the frames hanging on either sides of the television and he makes another mental note to get rid of the stock photos. 

He’s putting away some textbooks he maybe used once upon a time when the oven dings again, and he’s careful with the way he carries it to the dining table. It’s set for four, which is odd but not entirely off putting—most nights he ends up eating alone on the sofa, so the table is mostly for show. He was waiting for something else, or at least he thinks he was, but the worry is replaced by his stomach growling and his body’s immediate response to fill it. The food is good, edible at the very least, but Goro knows he’s had better. There was a potluck or something not long ago he’d been invited to where someone had made something similar. He can’t exactly picture them, but he knows they’d kept whatever special ingredient they’d added secret, despite his deep questioning. 

Shiho, his mind supplies. Shiho had made a similar dish and no matter how many times he’d tried to get answers out of her she’d just laughed and deflected. It had annoyed him, but she didn’t owe him anything, and it wasn’t like the world would end if he didn’t have the answers. He’d just brought it up to start conversation, since their respective partners were busy riling up the birthday boy so they could set off fireworks, but it just became another mindless game he participated in. At the very least, it was one that didn’t take anything from him besides a shred of pride. Akira had—

Goro stops himself, looking down at his near empty plate. He was waiting for Akira to come home, or at least he was supposed to be. His eyes fall onto the wall clock, ticking away but hands unmoving from 7:15. _Probably busted_ , he tells himself, but his phone tells the same story. So maybe it was _nerves_. 

No, it had to be _nerves._ He was nervous or anxious for something else, he had to be. There was that case all over the news lately, the one with the orphaned child and the shit for brains father that he’d been following closely without intervening. There wasn’t really a need to, seeing as the kid had ended up doing remarkably well for themselves and the father had been ousted for trying to undermine it, even if the child had no idea who he was. For once, the law had done its job, but there was still a focus on it due to its similarities with Goro Akechi’s. He remembers watching that one with disdain, a missing person’s case turning into one of the biggest press weeks in years. It was a little sad, knowing the truth behind the once beloved detective, but it certainly didn’t excuse his actions. It humanized him in the courtroom, however, and that led to him ending up with public service hours over jail time. 

He finishes his meal, puts the leftovers away and then does another cycle of the dishes. His hands feel a little grimy after, he should’ve put on gloves, but he hasn’t worn them in such a long time. There were still things to hide back then, and now he’s...still Goro Akechi. There wasn’t another case on the news, it had been _his_ case, as if they hadn’t milked it enough already. But enough time had past that they felt the need to review it again, which brought back all the attention he’d been trying to avoid. So Akira had suggested the haircut so he’d blend more easily, and he’d gone along with it, even if he didn’t necessarily agree. His face was still his face, whether it was hidden behind far too long bangs or not. His face, still being displayed on television but for a completely different reason. His face, staring blankly back at him in the mirror searching for answers. Something was still _wrong_ , and no amount of deflection would stop him from figuring out what. 

That was part of what made him so valuable in the first place, his unrelenting need to succeed. No, not that, he only lived to satisfy his own goals; everything else was part of the illusion. He was valuable because he was smart and kept to completing his tasks, regardless of the more difficult steps it took to accomplish them. Unrelenting, yes, but only when he was out of other options. There was a time and place for his rage, and it was never in the public eye, unless it was against...well, whoever it was, it didn’t matter. Or maybe they did? Now he’s going in circles again. 

If he started with the facts, then maybe he’d work his way towards...something, he supposes. He knew that he was Goro Akechi, obviously, and that had been both a blessing and curse, though mostly the latter. When he’d gained his power he wanted so desperately for it to be the answer to everything, to be the key to a justice only he could bring about, but he’d always known deep down it would cost him everything. There was no more normal once his plan had been set in motion, no friends if they did not benefit him, no breaks because he didn’t need them. Whatever the cost or the risk, he’d have his vengeance. And he’d given his life for it. 

Or he tried to, and then he’d ended up fighting another bastard who decided everything he’d ever done and fought for was pointless. No, _useless_ , and then he’d created an entire reality birthed from his vision of perfection were there was no hardship, there were no character-defining decisions, there was no need for justice. Even if the man was only trying to—No. No, there was no way to justify a mere man acting of behalf of God and fate and everything in between, a mere man to have the final say on what the world needed, his own actions be damned. He’d fought again, to his last breath, with...friends. Not then, and not for a long while after, but friends that he could call on now, if he ever felt the need to (but he didn’t). Friends that he knew would always be a little wary of him, and understandably so, but friends that didn’t seem to hate having him around anymore. Friends that he’d mistaken for stock photos in frames not too long ago.

He...lived in this apartment. Alone—no, with someone else. Not a roommate, because he’s never trusted like that. It would have to be someone important, someone that had proven themselves in one way or another to be worth his time. Someone who he’d hang out with every now and then, and didn’t have to restrain himself around. Someone who pushed back when he crossed a line, or someone who at least took his shit in stride. He...hated him, or he tried to, but now he couldn’t look at him with that same heat. It’s a different heat , really knowing him and allowing himself to be known in return. Goro stares at the group photo on the wall for a long, long time, taking in the familiar faces with their names on the tip of his tongue. Stares at _his_ face for a long, long time. 

He remembers putting up these photos, when it was still cold outside and they’d still had that terrible draft. It was pointless, he’d said, to display pictures of people they saw so regularly, but he did it anyway. Every frame had been spaced equal distance apart from the one above it and away from the screen—he’d been sure of it, even if his partner had laughed every time he dropped the ruler. If it was going to be done, then it would be done correctly. 

And he...no, Akira had said, “Well, sometimes you just want to look back and hold on to the good times, y’know?”

“That’s what longterm memory is for.”

He handed Goro a cat-shaped mug of hot chocolate once he’d joined him on the sofa, admiring his work. “What about when we get old and senile?”

“I’ve never really thought that far ahead before.” He’d hummed. “Though I’d like to hope if I do live that long, we won’t still be living in this shithole.”

“Now that you mention it, country living has always appealed to me. We could start a farm, ride horses...” Akira shifted in his spot, probably from finding a spring. “Commit legal arson every night of the week, maybe.”

Goro rolled his eyes, “You wouldn’t last a week before you packed everything back up and come crawling back.”

“You wouldn’t come with me?” He’d had the nerve to look genuinely heartbroken at the thought of it. 

“I’ve got clients. And so will you, soon enough.” He leaned over, resting his head on Akira’s shoulder. “The city’s not done with us just yet, I’m afraid.”

There’s a sigh, and then a kiss pressed into his hair. “Sometimes I wish it were.”

The memory brings on a headache, one that reminds him that it’s probably getting late anyway. A glance at the clock reads 7:15, which more than just a little early for his usual bedtime, but he’s tired. He wasn’t before, but maybe it was all of his rambling thoughts catching up to him. Who’s to say how much of it was spurred on from stress and several days of running on empty? Goro shakes his head, because that’s not…it. It gets hard, doing everything alone, but he manages. He’s always managed alone.

So he takes some aspirin and wanders down the hall into his bedroom, into a bed that’s fit for two of him even though he’s always stayed by himself (he _hasn’t_ ), and he tries to remember what—no, _how_ to fall into a dreamless sleep. Tomorrow will be better, he thinks. Tomorrow he’ll try again.

Tomorrow he'll fight again.

**Author's Note:**

> imagine having to experience your memories and identity being rewritten in real time by some weird freak counselor LMAO couldn't be me


End file.
